


Cruel Summer

by Daydreams_Daisies



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Darkspawn, Dragon Age: Origins Spoilers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Everyone is tired, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grey Warden shit, I'm Bad At Tagging, Lots of Stuff, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, OC is tired, Origins, Puss and Boots and Zevran are the same, Quote: All This Shit is Weird (Dragon Age), Romance, The Blight (Dragon Age), Zevran is complex, idk man, lots of darkspawn - Freeform, you cannot change my mind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:15:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25808695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daydreams_Daisies/pseuds/Daydreams_Daisies
Summary: "Devils roll the dice, angels roll their eyes, what doesn't kill me makes me want you more."~Freya is tired. Freya is cold. And Freya would like to go home. Everything is trying to kill her, the bard doesn't know any Taylor Swift songs, for some reason the elf assassin won't stop hitting on her, but even worse, she doesn't want him to stop. Lord of the Rings really made this whole "defeating an evil entity and saving the world while staying alive" thing look really easy. Now she understands, more than ever, why Boromir died in the first movie.Aka: A Gen Z ends up in Thedas during the 5th Blight and she hates it.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Original Character(s), Zevran Arainai/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 75





	1. Darkspawn and Anthropomorphic Cats

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! Here I am, posting something that was never supposed to see the light of day, but here we are anyways. Warning! This may not be super dark and gritty and will be more lighthearted and chaotic. This is just something light and fun for me to write in between chapters of my Witcher/GOT fic, The Last Dragon. I hope you'll enjoy! ♡

It’s cold; cold and wet. A combination that in the moment, Freya decides to hate.

She’s in a damp, dark, and cold forest, wandering aimlessly as heavy rain falls from the sky, the thin nightgown soaked to the bone as it sticks to her like latex, doing nothing to keep away the chill in the air. Now stained mud brown, the previously pastel pink socks with images of corgis squish with each step, reminding her of going to water parks as a kid and having to wear swimming shoes that would inevitably get an obscene amount of water in them. Her blonde hair sticks to her like a second skin and Freya can almost see the previously silvery blonde turning brassy from the hard water. At some point, dusk turned to night, the steadily setting sun being replaced with the moon that acts as a distant and weak guide. Hues of orange and red are now shrouded by an inky blackness that’s more unsettling than any night sky before. 

“ _What kind of bullshit dream is this?”_

The question repeats in her head over and over again, growing louder and louder each time she steps into a mud filled hole in the ground. Arms crossed over her chest, her body shivers, teeth chattering together as she desperately seeks any type of warmth. The forest seems endless, shadows dancing at the corner of Freya’s vision, mocking her with low growls and snarls. And when she turns to confront them, determined to face her death head on and proud, it’s only the wind -- a trick of the mind encouraged by the fear of the unknown. And as she trudges on, muttering curse words under her breath that are swept away by the fierce winds, she hears it again. 

It cuts through the noise of the forest like a freshly sharpened knife slicing through cookie dough fresh from the refrigerator. The snarl ripples through the tree, silencing the wind, and echoing in her ears. Slowly, almost unable to admit this is anything more than mind games, she turns. The putrid scent assaults her nose before she can turn more than halfway. It’s a deadly mixture of rotting flesh that is surrounded by old eggs left out in the middle of the desert for months. It takes nearly everything in her to not fall over and vomit whatever remains in her stomach, maybe grotesque creatures are afraid of vomit from helpless girls in pajamas. 

But she doubts it. 

Facing the creature, it’s appearance is even more horrible than it’s scent. With razor sharp teeth, jagged in every way possible, it’s face pulled into a snarl and eyes that were nothing more than white orbs, the creature is more terrifying than anything any critically acclaimed horror movie could’ve concocted. It’s skin is peeling back, exposing rotting flesh, making it seem undead in nature, with a putrid thick black substance oozing from its mouth like a dog drooling. The creature is hunched over, like it would split in half if you try to straighten it. Like a wolf howling to the moon, it throws its head back, but instead of howling it shrieks -- the pitch so intense and high Freya could believe it to be a banshee. 

A banshee/zombie hybrid. 

So she screams in response, whirling around with the speed of lightning and running in the opposite direction. The monster swipes a hand towards her, elongated and sharpened claws only centimeters away from tearing into flesh. Fear and adrenaline pump through her as she runs through the forest, narrowly avoiding falling to the ground. Protruding roots and low hanging branches cover the floor, like the forest itself is choosing sides. And it isn’t showing Freya any favor. But she manages to keep distance between her and the monster, even if it is only a few inches. With each scream that leaves its mouth and swipe of its claws, the rushing air hitting her back as it’s attack narrowly misses, the fear continues to grow. Like a weed that won’t stop multiplying in your yard, or a parasite that won’t leave your body, growing with each second as it continues to leech off of you, the stifling feelings of impending death won’t leave. 

Her face is wet, with tears or rain-- Freya can’t tell. Her heart isn’t racing like they describe in the thriller books, it isn’t rapidly pounding against her like it does when her anxiety swells up. It’s ice, the bitter cold spreading through her veins and turning her to stone, her fear paralyzing. A sob escapes her mouth, the sound lost to the wind rushing past her face as prayers she’s never recited before to gods she’s never heard of play through her mind. The words echo over and over again, growing louder with each stumbled step and more rapid the closer those claws get. But she hasn’t died yet, so maybe she’ll make it out of this alive?

_Crack._

Her toes catch on a root that protrudes from the forest floor, tall enough to cause damage but low enough to remain obscured by moss and dirt. The sound is audible, pain immediately flaring to life at the sight of the injury and traveling to her whole body within seconds. A pitiful whine leaves her mouth as her body falls to the ground, the sound ringing in her head like a massive tree falling in the forest. Face in the dirt, the tips of her nose pressed firmly against a slimy floor, Freya flips onto her back. Fingernails dig into the ground so tightly, the dirt pushing into her nails as they bleed, but the pain is nothing compared to the terror beating against her like a war drum. Now her heart pounds like they do in the horror films. 

The creature stalks towards her, a sneer still set on its ugly face and blood dripping from it’s every opening and cut. With one last screech it closes the gap between them. Freya moves backwards, determined to create distance between her and the creature. Her broken ankle cries out, vehemently disagreeing with the movement, but it’s quickly shoved away, the desire to not be brutally murdered winning in the fight of wills. But in her injured state, lying on the ground like a helpless doe trying to avoid a hunter, she moves hardly an inch before sharp claws dig into her leg. Pain shoots through her body, but the force isn’t enough to break skin. The hunter pulls out it’s rifle aiming to shoot, the monster pulling Freya towards it like she’s a rag doll. 

“Let go of me you Game-of-Thrones-White-Walker-wanna-be-bitch!” She screams, unwilling to show the horror and dread in the pit of her stomach. The prayers in her head grow more frantic with each snarl, thick drool dripping on her. And she simultaneously curses every time she naively thought she’d have a peaceful death that was as painless as possible. Something about the evil aura that wraps around this creature tightly, coating everything in proximity with it’s tainted nature tells Freya she’ll get anything _but_ a painless death. 

“I said, get off of me, the Night King wasn’t shit and neither are you!” Freya wildly kicks her legs, landing a few good blows against the creature. She manages to kick it in it’s face a few times, it’s flesh softer than Freya would’ve thought, but not pleasant like an animal plushy, instead the sensation leaves her whole body shaking with vomit creeping up her throat. The beast screeches, and Freya swears she can feel the slow trickle of blood coming out of her ears, head ringing from the pitch. 

_I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die._

Salty tears pour out of her eyes, dripping down her face and melting away some of the dirt and blood that stains her skin. A choked sob leaves her mouth, body quaking like a leaf in the middle of a hurricane, holding onto the branch for dear life. It lifts up a massive claw and brings it down, seconds away from tearing apart her face--

_Shing._

A shining metal blade that is coated in black ichor stabs through the left eye of the creature, inches away from Freya’s own head. Eyes wide, like a cat entranced by a toy, she watches as the creature sputters, black blood pouring from it’s mouth and staining her already ruined white nightgown muddy red. They flit up to see a man standing over the still corpse, from her vantage he looks like a giant standing over her prone form, or an angel of death chosen as her savior. Golden hair reminiscent of the missing sun and tan skin that’s been kissed by rays as bright as the amber eyes that watch her intently. God he’s beautiful, even from this distance with vision hazy from tears, rain, and dirt. His lips are pink and plump and look softer than her nicest cardigan, the ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of them. His golden hair falls past his shoulders, the two front pieces are pulled back into two braids, similar to the style Legolas wears in Lord of the Rings. The thing that captivates her gaze however isn’t the two blades that could sink through her like butter, or the roguish glint in his eyes, but it’s the two delicate pointed ears that peak through his hair.

An _elf_ , a real life elf. It could be a really convincing cosplay, but somehow she doubts that. 

Using minimal force, he pulls a blade free from the monster, the creature moving with the blade before dropping back onto Freya, the sensation breaking her from her stupor. This time the pain is based at her gut, where the head of the beast lands like a baseball thrown at full force. A gasp of air leaves her mouth, each breath getting harder to take with each passing second. Her eyes flit down to the creature in her lap, its body no longer twitching. The foul stench emanating from the corpse is worse than before as it’s blood seeps through her pajamas and soaks her body, leaving it sticky and grosser than before. Its eyes are wide open, mouth open in an eternal scream that the memory of alone threatens to burst Freya’s eardrums. 

“Are you okay, _bella_?” the stranger asks, wiping his coated blade with a cloth then sheathing it by his hip. Mud squishes under his boots, each step slow and deliberate, like she’s a wild animal he found on the side of the road. Shortly after a weight is lifted off of Freya and a small grunt leaves the man’s mouth as he pushes the corpse off of her. It’s body hits the mud with a thud, splashing brown water all over her face and body. She stares at the sky, eyes wide as shock keeps her body still, the silence that now encloses them eerie and unnerving. Like lifting a pile of boulders off the ground, Freya sits up, slowly, as if afraid that more creatures will jump out of the trees, consuming her and the unnamed hero. The steady movements leave her head dizzy, eyes not able to focus on anything around her as the blood rushes from her head. 

The man, now directly in front of Freya crouches down so they’re eye level. He’s even better looking up close, his skin smooth and perfect, even his faded scars look like they were painted in place by a master artist. On the right side of his face, he has two black tattoos, two lines that start at his temple and follow the curve of his sharpened cheekbones. He simply raises one of his taupe eyebrows, waiting for a response to his question it would seem. She opens her mouth, but no words come out, the nausea clawing at her like the now dead monster did a moment ago. She tries to force it down, willing her body to not betray her, at least not yet, but the bile in her throat creeps closer and closer until--.

Watery vomit spews from her mouth, coating her already ruined nightgown and splashing onto his leather boots. The pungent smell hits her nostrils immediately, the scent minging with the dead monster, creating the most disgusting perfume. She coughs, choking on the bile as her throat immediately becomes as dry as a desert and scratchy like sand. Her stomach contracts violently until it is completely empty, her whole body convulsing as it does. Her nose burns, some of the vomit coming out of her nostrils as tears mingle with the throw up, a choked sob leaving her mouth. 

“ _Braska_!” the man hisses as he jumps back, like she’s lava and he just stepped on it, shaking his feet to get the vomit off. 

“Sorry,” she weakly mutters, her voice sounding like it hasn’t been used in years. She 

coughs, trying to get rid of the burning taste in her mouth, doing everything she can to avoid swallowing. This moment is vaguely familiar, reminding her of when she was nine and staying over at a friends house. She woke up in the middle of the night and threw up all over herself, crying the whole time she did. Except this time her friend’s mom wasn’t there to help her get in a shower to clean it off, a fresh pair of pajamas ready for her to get in. This time she’s stuck in an evil forest where everything is wet, with a stranger who’ll probably leave her for dead now. 

“It is…fine. Just, refrain from doing that again, yes?” he says, a grimace on his face as he takes a tentative step towards her. 

“I don’t think I’d have anything else to vomit.” With shaky legs and unsteady breaths, Freya stands from the ground, nearly face planting into the ground a second later. The stranger catches her with ease, throwing her arms over his shoulder as he lifts her bridal style and starts moving forward. 

“Thanks.” 

“It is no problem, my dear. What great luck you have, yes, that such a dashing hero such as Zevran would arrive when he did!,” he says, nearly preening like a proud bird showing off it’s feathers. 

“Sure, we’ll go with that.” Pain pulses through her body, returning tenfold now that the adrenaline and fear is wearing off. The claw marks on her leg threaten to get infected, ankle mocking her as it dangles limply, completely useless. 

“Yes, well, we will simply return to my camp, and I’m sure one of our mages can heal you, my dear,” he says and Freya detects an accent that vaguely resembles a Spanish one. And in her delirious state, Freya imagines Puss and Boots from Shrek slaying that horrible beast, dramatically bowing immediately after as he takes off his feathered hat. 

“That would be nice.” She pauses, blinking rapidly a few times before her gaze focuses back on his face, tracing the hard lines of his face, desperate to know if his skin is as soft as it looks. And then laughs, quietly at first, her eyes alight with amusement and her cheeks rosy red.

“Something funny?” he raises a brow, glancing down at her for a moment before returning his gaze to the path before him. 

“Just imagining you as a cat,” Freya mumbles, not registering the words coming out of her mouth until they left, filtering into his ears. Her face burns with embarrassment, the hot skin managing to momentarily fight away the chill that seeps deep into her bones. But what’s said is said, and the stranger says nothing else, but she can see the amused smirk tugging at his pouty lips and the glint in his eyes.

“Do I want to know?”

“No, probably not.” 

Silence surrounds them for a few moments. He continues walking forward, dodging any low hanging vines or branches, stepping out of the way of any protruding roots. 

“Did it hurt?” Freya asks, breaking the quiet aura around them once again. In response, he raises a single brow with a soft _hmm_ that causes the part of his chest that Freya’s head rests on to vibrate. The sensation tickles, causing Freya to move her head slightly. 

“When you fell from heaven.” She giggles, like a small child that just told the funniest joke or when you’re a kid and you know a secret no one else does. “Get it? I just called you an angel.” And she continues to laugh, stuck in a delirious state from her injury that’s quickly festering and the immense relief radiating off her in waves. the sinking feeling in her stomach dissipating.

He looks at her for a moment longer before throwing his head back, a full bellied laugh leaving his mouth, causing his whole body to shake. The sound is warm and bright, nearly drying her drenched body and staving away any possibility of hypothermia. And she finds herself enjoying the sound of his laughter far more than she should. Call it delirium while putting him on a savior pedestal, at least that’s how she’ll justify it to herself. 

“I don’t know what an angel is nor this heaven you speak of, _mia cara_ , but I imagine it is a complement? A title worthy for someone as talented and handsome as myself?” he asks once his laughter dies down, but the sound distantly echoes in the forest and the depths of Freya’s mind. 

“Depends on who you ask, sometimes angels are just wings and a bunch of eyes.”

“Oh, are they pretty eyes at least?” he asks. 

“Oh the prettiest,” she says, mirth and humor thickly coating each word like honey. 

“Ha ha! She has a sense of humor it seems! If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to woo me?” he exclaims, unafraid of attracting any unwanted attention towards them, ready to fearlessly face any beast or monster that may burst through the trees. 

“No thank you, sir. I’m not into cats, sorry.” She waves her hand, eyes glazing over as she watches her hand limply flop in the air.

“You’re a strange one, aren’t you?”

“So I’ve been told, but you're the cat in boots.”


	2. D&D Magic Bullshit

Blinking once and then twice, with a hazy and cloudy vision Freya looks around. She’s still in the forest, shadows dancing at the corners of her vision, pain lingering in her body like a phantom. A stifling fear and anxiety begins to creep up her stomach, her whole body stiffens like a board, locking in place like she’s a statue turned to stone by Medusa. 

_ I’m moving, how am I moving? _

Even her thoughts are slurred, as if she found a liquor store, draining it of everything it sells. Freya can’t focus on a single thing, the surroundings blurring with each movement. It’s confusing and muddling, the events from five minutes ago feeling more like a distant memory than a fresh coat of paint on her canvas. 

_ Is this what flying is like? _

Arms, strong yet soft, wrap around her body, tightening as she stirs, long and calloused fingers brush over her exposed arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. She glances up, seeing the face of a man, a very beautiful man with tan skin and golden eyes. He glances down, a sly smile on his lips, something witty and charming on the tip of his tongue. And even with hazy eyes and an intoxicated mind, she knows that a smile like that promises nothing good, even if it does promise a good time. It’s fatal, like the blade he used moments ago when he saved her from the corrupted creature. 

“Sleeping Beauty has awoken, tell me, are my arms as good for comforting and sleeping as I’m told? Perhaps I can offer you my shoulder tonight to cry on, words of consolation after your near death experience?” His accent is like molasses, smooth and warm, banishing the anxiety creeping up Freya almost instantly. He’s like honey and she’s a bee, drawn to the sugary sweetness he is certainly laced with. 

“I don’t have an answer for that, so I’m just gonna plead the 5th.” Her voice is scratchy and dry, throat desperately pleading for some sort of relief; either by water or another drink that will leave it worse for wear. 

“How sad and strange, has anyone ever told you that you say strange things?” he says, but the smirk remains on his face, eyes watching the winding trail ahead of them.

“It’s more likely than you think. Anyways, how long was I sleeping?” Freya attempts to sit up, but his grip only tightens, so instead she huffs quietly, leaning the side of her face against his chest. The leather armor is firm and tough, offering no comfort to her aching head, but it’s better than being dead. 

“Oh only about….3 minutes. Don’t worry, we’ll be reaching camp soon, and I’m sure the Grey Warden will let you stay the night in our camp and you can sleep through the night.” He adjusts his grip, pulling her just a hair closer to him, her cheeks firmly pressing against his chest.

“Cool, so like, what’s your name? Figured I should know it,” she asks, the words awkward, tongue tying as she tries to force the words out, longing to talk as smoothly and nonchalantly as him. 

“Zevran Arainai, at your service, my dear. Now if you would return the favor and enlighten me on the name of the magnificent creature in my arms, for I will certainly be hearing it in my dreams tonight.” He looks down, winking one of his eyes, a roguish glint twinkling in them. Freya’s face heats up, as red as the roses she always keeps in her room. A girlish giggle that sounds like a strangled cat leaves her mouth and she coughs, rather loudly. But it’s too late, the damage is already done and his smirk is now ten watts brighter than before and twice as dangerous. And she wonders if touching him would hurt as much as touching a light bulb that’s been on for hours. 

“Freya Merrill, err just Freya you probably didn’t need my last name too,” she answers, the burn in her cheeks growing hotter and hotter with each second, the chill in the air doing nothing to quell it. 

“Meril, is that not Elvish?” His brows furrow, small lines appearing on his forehead as his expression crinkles. 

“I don’t know, you’re the elf.”

“Ahh what keen eyes you have and so perceptive too. Perhaps the Warden will elect to keep you around and I can have you all to myself?” His words are light and airy, freely showing the teasing undertones lacing his statement. Her mind turns blank, any response previously on the edge of her lips dissipating, leaving nothing but alarm bells blaring in her head. 

“I...don’t have anything clever to say so just… insert a super witty comment here,” Freya says, palm facing upwards, drawing an invisible line in the air. Zevran throws his head back, laughter filling her ears, ringing like music. 

_ Gross, feelings.  _

“Of course, you are the cleverest woman to ever grace me with her ethereal presence.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

Freya turns her head, watching as Zevran treks forward. If she were a woman with more pride, determined to prove herself, she’d offer to walk, denying any need for him to carry her like a child. But the way her broken ankle hangs like a wilting flower and the numbness coursing from her toroso down to her feet, it would be a useless endeavor. Even if he agreed to let her walk, he’d have to pick her back up a moment later.

“We are nearing the camp,  _ bella _ ,” Zevran whispers in her ear, his breath leaving her with a tickling sensation that makes her briefly twitch her head

“Cool. Should I start by telling them how much I love the color gray?” she looks over at him, eyes mischievous and bright.

“Why not.”

The trees begin to part, like they’re at a red carpet event and her and Zevran are the main show, the low hanging branches that brush against her feet the paparazzi, blinding her with flashing cameras, the distant cawing of birds screaming intrusive questions that make her short circuit and shut down.

Or maybe she’s just being dramatic. Yeah, that’s probably it. 

Three steps later, with a grimace on her face she tries to cover with a smile, too wide and enthusiastic to ever be real, they enter a small camp. She counts seven tents set up around a campfire, it’s flames reaching for the night sky, and noticeably one of them is set up as far away from the others - nearly not even a part of the camp with it’s own small fire. Nine people mill around, one person stoking the fire to keep it burning, another cutting up herbs to be thrown in a stew, while the rest simply rest on logs, idly chatting, decompressing after a day of travel. But their attention snaps to Freya and her roguish savior and a woman jumps up, quickly marching towards them.

She’s tall and lean, walking with poise and regalness, nose up and chin straight with a stiff posture. Her hair is copper, flowing like a cloak behind her, longer than Freya could ever dream of growing her own. With skin that’s been delicately touched by the sun and freckles dotting her face like constellations in the sky, clear of any sort of blemish that could distract you from her eyes. They’re as blue as the water in those resort ads that lure people to take cruises or go to the Caribbean for a vacation. A plain tunic hangs off her upper body and a pair of leather pants hugs her legs, further emphasizing how muscular she is. She’s beautiful in that sort of effortless supermodel kind of way. The type of girls Freya would see on TV and plastered all over social media. And Freya would spend hours ranting to everyone who’d listen and those who wouldn’t everytime Hollywood inevitably cast her to be the “ _ awkward quirky girl no one finds attractive _ ” despite her being insanely gorgeous. 

“Zevran, we were wondering where you ran off to, Alistair thought you’d ditched us in an attempt to get back with the Crows, but it would seem he was wrong.” Her voice is calm and collected, a cold undertone that makes Alaska seem like a beach resort. Well, in a few years it would be due to climate change, but that’s a different conversation. 

Freya’s eyes dart to the man that previously sat on the log, who is now slowly approaching the three of them, his face pinched together in an unreadable expression. His brown eyes rest of her for a quick second before returning to Zevran as he closes the gap between them. He’s tall and broad, muscles nearly bursting through his tunic. He’s attractive, that’s undeniable, with his dirty blonde hair that’s perfectly messy and sharp facial features.

_ Is there like, something in the water here that makes everyone hot? _

“Absurd! I’m hurt, truly, that you think so little of me to believe I’d run off into the night with a proper farewell! For shame Alistair, for shame. No, I ran off at the behest of the damsel in my arms who was in distress, being chased through the forest by a shriek. And I now bring her here for some healing and a respite from her trauma.” Zevran exclaims, using the same bravado he speaks to Freya with, but she notices a tinge of...irritation well hidden behind each word. 

“Hi it’s me, the damsel that was distressed.” Freya says, weakly waving her hand, her eyes are heavy again, screaming at her to close them if only for a moment. 

“A shriek was chasing you?” The tall me approaches, standing beside the beautiful women, his eyebrows quirked and head tilted. 

“I uh guess? I didn’t stop to ask what it was while it was trying to kill me.” Freya says, glancing at Zevran, heart aggressively hitting her chest, the beat slow and steady, then looking back at the two people in front of her. “It screamed a lot I guess.” 

“Well shrieks do have a tendency of doing that,” the man says, the left corner of his lips tilting upwards. 

“I hope, otherwise the name wouldn’t make sense if they were mute.” 

“Or maybe the person who named them was going for irony?” he replies, hand on his chin, feigning that he’s deep in thought. 

“You’re injured,” the woman interjects, looking over Freya’s body with a clinical look in her eyes, cold and detached. 

“As I said earlier, Warden, she is in need of some healing, perhaps we can ask questions after her leg is taken care of, yes?” Zevran says, pointing his head towards Freya’s leg. The woman nods her head, the movement as stiff as her straight back. She turns, looking at a woman with grey hair that is tied out of her face and under eye wrinkles and prominent smile lines, wearing simple red robes with golden detailing. The older woman nods, standing and moving closer to the fire. 

“Of course, let’s bring her closer to the fire so she can warm up. It won’t do any good to heal her wounds only for her to die from the cold.” A second after the words leave her mouth, the woman snaps around and marches towards the fire. The man straightens his posture, standing taller than before. 

“I can take her, Zevran.” His words are innocent enough, but even in her hazy mind she can see the weariness and suspicion in the man’s eyes as he looks at Zevran and takes a step closer to them. 

“I assure you, my friend, I can handle a few more feet.” Like a swift wind passing through a room, Zevran walks past the man and follows behind that woman. 

Five steps is all it takes before Zevran closes the distance, setting Freya down on the ground beside the old woman. He’s gentle and cautious, careful to not unwittingly make her pain any worse, avoiding the dull pain flaring to life with vengeance. He sits down beside her and throws another charming smile her way, causing her already racing heart to beat for another reason. The woman gives Freya a small smile, looking like a child approaching a stray dog found on the side of the road. 

“Hello child, my name is Wynne, where is it that you are injured.” Her voice is calm like Freya is visiting a doctor, her words laced with the warmth similar to waking up at grandma’s house with fresh cookies in the oven. 

“My leg and my ankle.” Freya points in the vague direction of her injury. Wynne nods her head, moving her attention to Freya’s injury, her face pinched in concentration as her hand hovers over the injured leg. A moment later it begins to glow light blue, a soft hum filling the area and filtering into Freya’s head.

“Hey man, what the fuck?!” Freya yells, jumping in her spot, twisting her injured ankle in the wrong way in the process. A yelp of pain leaves her mouth, a slew of curses following shortly after. Wynne looks bewildered, eyes furrowing in confusion as her lips are set in a thin line. “What kind of Chris Angel bullshit was that? Your hands were glowing….glowing!” 

She’s shaking, breathing erratic and unsteady. And it's never happened before, but Freya feels like she’s hyperventilating and seconds away from passing out, vision blurry and dim. 

“Yes, I am attempting to heal you child, using my magic would be the most effective way to do that,” Wynne explains, sounding as tired as Freya feels. 

“Mia cara, she is only trying to help you, have you never been around mages?” Zevran asks, closer to her than five seconds ago, a hand on the small of her back, only a few inches away from being close to an inappropriate spot. 

“Mages?” Freya croaks out, eyes darting from Zevran and then Wynne, eyes wide in shock and disbelief, mouth agape. “Like...D&D I cast fireball, mage?” 

“I don’t know what this D&D is, but yes, she is a mage.”

“And I would suggest you stay still, Wynne is the best healer from the Circle of Magi, you are lucky to be receiving healing from her, free of charge,” The woman’s voice cuts through the atmosphere cleanly, momentarily pulling Freya from her hysterics, if only to get nervous and anxious because of  _ her. _

“I--” Freya looks around; Zevran wears a smile on his face and Freya returns it, albeit weakly. Wynne looks tired, but is trying to keep the calm and polite expression on her face, but the mask is beginning to slip and crack. The tall man is hovering nearby, intently watching the scene, his brows furrowed with small crinkles on his forehead. There’s a woman with pale skin and short red hair sitting close by, an odd guitar in her lap as she watches the scene, a glint in her pale blue eyes that Freya can’t quite discern. There’s a large man standing on the edge of camp, larger than the one that spoke to her earlier. He’s grey skinned with stark white hair, each strand meticulously braided away from his face, massive arms crossing over his chest as he watches with a scowl on his face. There’s another woman, this one tall and slim, with raven black hair and piercing gold eyes that intrude on Freya’s every thought. She wears strange clothes, mostly made from leathers and various furs that hardly cover anything on her upper torso. And finally a stout man with fiery red hair and a matching long unkempt beard lays on the other side of the fire, passed out drunk on the ground with a tankard lying by his face, nose in the dirt. 

“Maybe I can play a song, something to help soothe your nerves?” the red haired woman asks, her voice soft and musical with a thick French accent. 

“Uh sure, music is great, love music so much,” Freya mutters, eyes darting around the camp like a wild animal threatening to bolt from potential trouble. “Do you know any Taylor Swift, preferably something from her Folklore album?” 

“I do not know who this Taylor Swift is, I’m afraid.” 

“What? Like I can understand if you haven’t learned any of her music because it’s too “ _ mainstream _ ” but like, to not even know her. What rock have you been living under Patrick?” Freya exclaims, the words frantic and jumbled and it gets harder and harder to breath each second.

“Child, focus please!” Wynne cuts in, forcing Freya out of her mind. Her voice is razor sharp, like when her grandma would snap at her about one thing or another.

“Okay sorry, I guess, you can do your… magic thing,” Freya mutters, face burning as red as the guy’s hair that is currently out cold. She gets closer, mindful of her wound that is currently screaming at her. 

With an audible sigh, Wynne’s hand begins to glow again and as it moves closer to her leg, Freya does nothing and says nothing, simply holding her breath and trying to not have another freak out. An odd tingly sensation fills her whole body, warming her to the very core and leaving behind a fuzzy feeling, dulling her sense if only for a moment. It’s euphoric, everything people probably feel when they take the feel good drugs, and for a brief second, Freya understands how people get addicted. Because as soon as it’s there, the feeling is gone, leaving her cold and unhappy. 

“There that should fix your ankle.” On instinct, she moves her foot, no longer being hit by a ton of brick with each movement. “As for the scratches on your leg, they are not deep enough that a simple poultice could not fix the damage.” Wynne says, looking up at the woman looming over Freya like a shadow, nodding her head and standing from her spot and moving to sit near the fire.

“Leliana, get one of the politics, will you please?” The woman asks, not moving her eyes from Freya. The redhead smiles brightly, setting her guitar down on the ground with the care you would use for a relic, and stands from her position, moving off in the opposite direction. 

The woman takes two steps, closing the little distance between them and taking a seat on a log. She’s close enough that Freya can feel the heat radiating off her, like a furnace, a stark difference from the ice in her eyes. The man from before follows suit, sitting down beside the woman and the other woman with raven hair draws closer, but still maintains some distance. A few moments later, Leliana returns, a glass bottle with a thick brown goo in hand. She passes it to the woman who then tosses it to Freya. The bottle is smooth and slippery, nearly falling from the palms of her hands too many times to keep track of. 

“Put this on the scratches, you can wrap it after.” Her voice is authoritative and stern, leaving no room for questions.

“After…?”

“After I ask you a few questions and determine you aren’t a threat.” Freya opens her mouth, words of anger and indignation on her tongue, but the woman steam rolls past her. “What were you doing in the thick of a darkspawn infested forest, with no weapon and wearing  _ that _ .” 

Clearly she isn’t a fan of nightwear. 

“Uh well, I’m not sure actually, I just kind of...woke up there, I guess. One second I remember being in bed and the next I was there.” She’s nervous, everyone with a brain cell can see it. Her tongue is tying together, the words stumbling over each other no matter how hard she tries to straighten them. 

“And you expect me to believe that?” she asks, an incredulous look on her face, brows furrowing and mouth set in a frown.

“Uh...yeah?” Freya shrugs her shoulders, anxiety causing her to short circuit as her mind grows blank again.

“I’m just supposed to believe that it’s a coincidence that Zevran, one of the companions of the only two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, happened to save you in the nick of time? And you conveniently don’t remember how you got to be in the middle of the forest to begin with?” 

Freya just stares at her, the poultice in hand completely forgotten.

“Would now be a good time to tell you that gray is my favorite color?” 

The man snorts, his facial expression relaxing instantaneously. Freya throws him a small smile but it quickly vanishes when the woman gives her a hard stare.

“Okay so either you don’t like grey, or you feel very strongly about the color. I get it, I get it. Personally I prefer pink, like a pastel pink, which I know is very typical of a girl and I’m all  _ destroy the patriarch and eat men _ , but I like pretty things too--”

“Enough,” the woman says, silencing Freya, but only for a second, her nerves causing her mouth to keep talking even if her brain was screaming at her to shut up. 

“Do you like Vines? Because if so, maybe I could quote some for you--” 

“Did you not hear what I just said, silence you bumbling fool!” Her tone is louder than before, no longer like the burn of a razor, but a cut on her skin. 

“What about the one with the guy yelling  _ ‘What are those?!’  _ and then his grandma is just like ‘ _ They are my crocs _ ’ or--” 

“I said to be quiet!” she stands from her sitting position, hand reaching towards her hip, ghosting over something. 

“Or maybe you prefer Tik Tok more, I’m not as familiar with the platform, but I’m sure I could come up with something if--”

“Shut up!” The woman roars, red as the flames flickering wildly beside her, her copper hair itself looking too hot to touch. She towers over Freya with their current positioning, appearing far more intimidating than moments prior, if that’s possible. Veins protrude from her neck, nearly all the blood from her body migrating to her face.

“Maybe the edit of the pastor repeatedly saying ‘ _ Why _ ’?” she says, crumpling into herself, like a sandcastle falling apart once water touches it. 

“What is the matter with you? I was wrong, you are far too stupid to possibly be a spy, in fact you’re probably a little touched in the head. You can stay here tonight or you can leave, I don’t care, just stop your incessant talking!” And with that she storms off, disappearing into a tent. The flap to the tent loudly smacks against the canvas, a loud  _ thump _ ringing in the otherwise camp ground as she throws herself to the ground. A growl of frustration tears through the camp and Freya swears that the ground beneath her feet shakes, if only briefly. 

No one says anything, the silence causing Freya to squirm in her seat. She looks from Zevran to Leliana to the mystery man and then back to Zevran. His face glimmers with barely repressed amusement, eyes dancing with mirth and lips in a smirk. Noticing her gaze, he raises a brow, but says nothing.

“I guess telling her grey is my favorite color didn’t work.” 

“No, it would seem not,  _ bella, _ ” he says and grabs the bottle from her grasp. It slides from her hand easier than it should’ve as he pops the cork open using his mouth. “Here, let me apply this, don’t want your wound getting infected, yes?” Freya nods, not trusting her voice to not be shaky like a preteen girl when her crush looks at her. 

He tips the bottle over, the thick goo slowly sliding out of the opening and into his hands. He grabs her leg with the claw marks and places it on his lap, grabbing her like she weighs nothing. She jumps, his hand is like fire against ice, burning away the chill that the fire hasn’t chased off yet. Carefully, mindful that the injury is still raw and red, he slathers the poultice over it. It hisses in protest at first contact, but the longer the goo rests on the claw marks, sinking into the scratches, the pain soothes and all but disappears leaving behind a sensation similar to getting numbing shots at the dentist. Leliana approaches Zevran, strips of cotton in hand that she holds out to him. He takes them and starts to tightly wind the fabric over her leg, protecting it until it fully heals. 

“So you really don’t remember how you got in the forest, you weren’t just pulling Elyssa’s chain?” the man asks, pulling Freya’s attention from her now soothed wound, her eyes moving to him instead of watching Zevran with apt fascination that will get her in trouble if she doesn’t stop. 

“Nope, sorry. I wish I had a better explanation but I don’t,” she says, warily watching him, afraid that he might blow up and yell and scream like the now named woman, Elyssa, did moments ago. But he never does, instead he sighs, muttering something incoherent to her ears, but out of the corner of her eyes she sees Zevran glance up at him for a moment before returning his attention to wrapping her wound. 

“Right and you’re sure you aren’t some sneaky mage thief assassin here to kill us?” He narrows his eyes, as if to discern whether she’ll lie to him or not. 

“You fool, she is no mage. You of all people should know this, considering your training as a templar,” the woman with raven hair interjects, golden eyes narrowing to slits as she resembles a cobra preparing to strike. Her hands rest on her hips and aura of exasperation radiating from her, similar to how you might talk to a child when they won’t understand something you’ve told them time and time again. 

“Well I don’t know! I’m just asking!” The woman scoffs, leveling Freya with one last glance, looking at her how someone might look at a genetic oddity, locking it behind a cage as they poke and prod it. A shiver runs down her spine, not liking the cogs turning in the woman’s brain. She turns with a dramatic sway, moving towards her tent that is set up the farthest from everything. Only when she’s completely out of sight does her nerves calm, the frazzled expression leaving her eyes.

“I’m Freya, by the way!” she blurts out, growing red in the face with shaky hands that are damp with sweat. The mystery man and Leliana turn to her. Leliana smiles brightly, nearly as blinding as the sun is, her blue eyes warm and serene, a stark contrast to Elyssa’s icy ones. 

“Leliana.” Freya returns the smile, mustering as much enthusiasm as physically possible in her tired and worn state. 

“Alistair, if there are to be introductions.” He holds a hand out and Freya meets his grasp. His large hand easily dwarfs her own, swallowing it in warm skin and calloused fingertips. “That qunari over there is Sten,” he nods towards the gray man who’s paid them no mind since Freya arrived. “-- and that swamp witch is Morrigan.”

“And the guy passed out?”

“That, my dear, is our fearless and stout dwarf friend, Oghren.” Zevran says, tying the bandage in a knot so it won’t come loose. 

“Wait like-- a real dwarf? Like World of Warcraft going to Ironforge dwarf?” she sputters, mind not fully comprehending the influx of new information. But before anyone can do more than exchange glances of confusion, Freya gasps, staring at Zevran with wide eyes. 

“You’re an elf!” she points at him, specifically his ears that are on clear display as his golden hair is tucked behind them. “A real elf!”

“Last I checked that is correct.” 

“Do you like...know elvish?” she asks, leaning forward as if they’re sharing childhood secrets with one another. 

“Bit and pieces, now come dear, you’ve had enough excitement for one night. Now for that night of rest I promised you!” Zevran stands, holding his hand out for her to take. She does, tentatively, allowing him to help her stand on her two feet. She’s shaky and wobbly, still numb in her left leg, but Zevran leans most of her weight against him. 

“ _ A real elf _ .”

“Where will she be sleeping,” Leliana asks. 

“In my tent of course!” Zevran says, a broad grin lighting up his face.

“No, no, no, no, no. That’s not a good idea. She should sleep with Leliana or Wynne or something, anyone but you,” Alistair says, standing from the log like it’s fire and he just got burnt. “She can even sleep in my tent and I can sleep out here by the fire.”

“Alistair is right, she might be more comfortable with another girl or maybe even alone,” Leliana says, also standing from her seat. Alistair opens his mouth as does Zevran, but Freya beats both of them to it.

“Actually I’d prefer to share with Zevran.” The aforementioned elf’s face is smug, like a cat that got the cream while Alistair and Leliana look confused, Alistair more than either of them. “I just feel more comfortable with him, no offence. The whole saving my life thing helps I guess.”

“Then it’s settled! We’ll be seeing you in the morning!” Zevran pulls Freya away faster than the wind could carry them, guiding her to a tent closest to the thick forest. “Looks like we’ll be tent mates, my dear.” He flashes her a smile, sending more alarm bells to her brain, the instinct similar to coming across a lethal creature that lures you in with bright colors and a pretty appearance only to kill you before you could think twice. 

“And they were roommates.” Freya whispers, heat rising to her cheeks as she follows him into the tent. 


	3. Khaleesi Braids and Emotional Breakdowns

Distant dog barks break through the barrier of silence that encases Freya, shattering the realm of dreams she temporarily resides in while sleeping. Sunlight hits the canvas of the tent she’s in, not quite able to pierce through it as aggressively as it might like, instead the light is soft and unfocused. The ground is hard and rocky, pain shooting through her body as she floats to consciousness, black and blue bruises forming on her back. It’s uncomfortable and new, a sensation so foreign to her due to Freya's aversion to the outdoors and lack of camping experience. A thin bedroll with more holes in it than a honeycomb covers her body, the rough wool tickling her chin, wood and campfire smoke lingering on it. 

Yet despite the discomfort and disorientation, her eyes flutter open, bright with a glossy vision. A small smile pulls on the corner of her lips as she blinks, lids heavy and lazy. The dog barks grow louder and more frequent each time an eye shuts. She cracks her knuckles, pushing back the bedroll to stretch her arms up towards the top of the tent, cracking following each movement. 

“Izzy, stop barking,” she says, voice thick with sleep and a morning rasp that keeps her volume no louder than a whisper. She can’t remember letting her out of the kennel, but it wouldn’t be the first time she let the lab out while still half-asleep. 

_ Hopefully she didn’t do too much damage while I was sleeping. _

“I do not believe that is what our fair Warden has named her war hound,” someone chimes in, the same early morning growl that follows Freya lingers in their voice. There’s an accent to their words, so familiar that it gnaws on her brain with a hint of excitement but also overwhelming dread. 

_ I don’t live with anyone else.  _

The cogs in her head begin to turn as she becomes the embodiment of the confused math lady meme. Brows furrow, lines form on her forehead, and her lips press into a firm line. 

_ I also don’t sleep on the ground. _

Her mind turns to white, any thought or words that lingers gone in an instant. Eyes dilate like a cat, heart pounding against her chest like last night when she was….running from a  _ monster.  _

Freya turns her head, slowly, as if by some magic the world around her will disappear and she’ll cease to exist for a few seconds, only to wake up in bed again. 

But she doesn’t. 

Instead she turns to find the beautiful man -- more accurately -- the elf that saved her from the claws of death last night. He’s as beautiful as when he was her knight in shining armor, a figment of her desperation, a delusion that is apparently real. Tangles and knots from tossing and turning in his sleep adorn his golden hair, a thin layer of sleep induced unawareness coat his brown eyes. Plump pink lips curl into a small grin as he observes Freya watching him, memorizing each level of emotion that washes over her face.

“What? Is there something on my face?” His grin is teasing and mischievous, everything that a devious god there to bring chaos to Freya's state of life would possess.

He raises a brow at her, the amusement that glitters in his eyes bleeding onto the rest of his face, the grin curling on his lips similar to a cat that got the cream. And she can see the millions of qips and comments on the tip of his tongue, each sentence clear in his glittering eyes, yet he remains silent. 

She blinks once.

Twice.

And finally a third time, for good measure. 

Yet he still remains in his spot. 

**_Ahhhhh!_ **

The ear piercing scream leaves Freya’s mouth before she can fully comprehend what’s happening. Like a banshee’s wail, the noise tears through the thick canvas that surrounds them, cutting through any ambience in the campground just outside. The man -- who she suddenly recalls the name of -- Zevran, throws his hands over his ears, an attempt to create a barrier between her wail and his eardrums. He moves away, getting as far from Freya as the already small tent allows. His eyes are shut, nose scrunching as he shuffles in discomfort, a slew of foreign cusses freely pouring from his mouth. 

She flings the blanket off of her body, throwing it into the air as she scrambles to get away. It flies high in the air, but lands on top of her in a heap, blocking out her vision and making everything go dark. She frantically bats her hands, trying to push the cotton away, but each time she does so it only gets more and more tangled. She finally manages to free herself, with ratty hair and wild eyes she stares at Zevran as she continues to scream. 

There’s shuffling outside, Freya muffling the majority of the noise, a stern sounding woman shouts orders that get closer and closer with each word spoken. Suddenly bright light streams into the tent, the zipper on the tent flap nearly coming undone by the force it’s thrown open. A large hand, calloused and firm, wraps around Freya’s waist, pulling her through the exit like she’s a toy and they’re a dog, biting into her with its massive maw as his hands hold her in a tight grip. 

“Let me go, let me go, let me go!” Freya screams, killing the banshee and awakening the shrilly eight year old little girl yelling  _ ‘Stranger Danger! _ ’ every time someone got too close. She wraps a hand around the strangers hands, digging her nails in their flesh like the horrid creature that nearly killed her just last night, blindly punching any flesh peeking out from her would-be kidnapper’s arm with her other fist. 

“Ow! Please stop hurting me,” a man says, moaning like a small child that wants to play in the park, yet their parents are too busy to take them. He’s familiar, the way he talks and the tone that wraps around his words, sounding far too teasing and light to belong to the horrible men she’s imagined that grab people off the streets, wearing trench coats and fedora hats.

He drags her out of the tent, letting her go like she’s an oven stovetop that’s been on for hours. The light is dazzling as Freya attempts to stand on her own two feet, blindly swinging her arms as she does. She stumbles over thin air, nearly falling a dozen times, but she manages to catch herself each time, seconds before plummeting to an embarrassing fall. The dog barks louder, with much more bass than when Freya peacefully rested in the tent, oblivious to her predicament, still drunk on sleep. 

A hand, much softer than the one that pulled Freya out of the tent but still rougher than hers would ever be, holds onto her left shoulder, steadying her body.

“ _ Bella _ , please, be calm,” Zevran says, speaking to her like a spooked deer he’s dying to pet. Her whole body shakes, mind pure chaos, and she’s seconds away from bolting into the dark forest, much like an actual deer. 

Another hand grabs onto her other shoulder, with a grip a touch tighter than Zevran’s, pulling her towards them and away from Zevran. 

“What did you do to her, Zevran?” the man questions, suspicion and disdain replacing the teasing tone present when speaking to Freya. The face matching the voice appears before Freya in her mind: tall, dirty blonde hair, and brown eyes that sparkle in the light, yet look at Zevran with nothing but mildly covered disdain. 

Alistair. 

“I assure you, I did nothing, my friend.” Zevran replies, barely containing the acid that hides under his words, pulling Freya with less force than Alistair, but still enough to cause her to stumble closer to him. 

“Well then explain why she was just screaming like a bloody shriek.” Alistair demands, his tone of voice getting more aggressive, pulling Freya back to him. 

“I would hope you would have more trust in me to know I would not approach someone with unwanted advances,” Zevran says, the acid melting through the barrier that kept his words from sounding threatening. He yanks on Freya, pulling her with enough force that her legs nearly crumble beneath her as she haphazardly lands against Zevran’s chest. 

“Hey do you guys mind letting me go so I can get back to screaming bloody murder?” Freya asks, her voice meek and quickly swallowed by Alistair’s booming one. 

“It’s not too far of a leap, you proposition everyone who breathes, why wouldn’t you get too handsy with someone who’s right in your tent.” he says, pulling Freya away from Zevran, the force nearly knocking her into his chest, but she gathers her footing before that happens. 

“Well now you know that I prefer for the men or women I sleep with to be willing. Perhaps you should have more faith in a fellow party member, yes?” Zevran hisses, pulling Freya into him. 

“Apologizes, but I tend to not have much faith in assassins who’ve tried to kill me,” Alistair says, pulling Freya into his chest, her shoulder hitting his chest that is armorless, otherwise that would’ve hurt more than Freya would’ve liked. 

“Seriously guys, my arm is starting to hurt,” Freya says, louder this time, yet still she goes unnoticed. 

“And I’ve told you it was nothing personal, just simply business. I am an assassin; someone wants another person dead and they pay me to do it, ” Zevran responds, the acid that drips from his words frozen into ice. With a grunt, he pulls Freya towards him, and the floor falls from her feet for a moment as she lands against Zevran, right arm released from Alistair’s grip. Zevran wraps his other arm around Freya’s waist, cradling her against him. Pain shoots through her body in the places both Alistair and Zevran held onto, yanking her like a game of tug-of-war. 

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow,” Freya mutters, face scrunching up, the tips of her lips touching the bottom of her nose as her eyes grow watery. 

_ Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.  _

“Damn it!” Freya shouts as salty liquid slowly trickles out of her eyes, down her cheeks, and lands on the floor, getting soaked into the ground. She rubs her left shoulder, attempting to soothe the pain, only to cause her right arm to scream at her in anger.

“Let me see child,” Freya hears Wynne say, the sound of feet stepping into the hard ground as the warm aura that seems to radiate from Wynne envelopes Freya, making her mind go fuzzy as the pain nearly dissipates. Zevran unravels himself from Freya as Wynne places her hands on the exact same spot that’s currently red. Only instead of the sting she expects, a soothing warmth burns away the pain until it’s nothing more than a dull ache.

“Thanks,” Freya mutters, opening her eyes, blinking away the stray tears that quickly fall, leaving her face blotchy and red in their wake. She looks up, clearly seeing her surroundings for the first time today. 

Alistair is a few steps away from her, embarrassment staining his cheeks, his eyes immediately dart away when he notices her gaze on him. Zevran still stands directly behind her, his steady breaths lightly caressing the back of her neck. Wynne stands in front of her, stepping back after releasing Freya from her grip, hair in a loose bun with deep bags under her eyes. Leliana is a few steps back from Wynne, baby blue eyes watching the scene like a hawk, arms loosely crossing over her chest. Her red hair is loose, clearly unstyled and unbrushed. Beyond her is the dwarf with fiery hair and a beard to match, Oghren, if her memory serves her correct. He’s sitting on a log, near the fire that’s nothing but ashes and charred wood, a lazy grin on his face, eyes glossed over as he lifts an old, dirty flask to his mouth. Morrigan is nowhere to be seen and Sten stands at the edge of camp with a stiff posture, not paying attention to anything happening in camp.

Worst of all is Elyssa, with a frown on her face and ice in her eyes that rival an angel of frost and death, sweeping over the battlefield, leaving behind destruction and decay. Her arms cross over her chest, the hilt of a very large sword sticking out of the scabbard that’s attached at her hip. She’s tall, standing perfectly still, almost like a tree that’s taken root in the ground. A very large and very scary looking dog stands beside her, hackles high as it watches the scene, waiting for it’s master to say a command. A glint of intelligence twinkles in its eyes and it’s panting heavily, perfectly showing off the razor sharp teeth that it possesses, drool pooling around its mouth. 

“Are you quite done yet?” Elyssa asks. Her tone is sarcastic, tilting her head slightly to the left as she watches Freya with a patronizing look.

“Yup, got the morning screams out and now I’m ready for the day,” Freya says, trying to put more force in her voice, yet it’s a pathetic croak. Like a cub trying to roar like a full grown lion. Zevran snorts behind her, the image of the smirk that is certainly on his lips clear in her mind. Alistair’s face morphs, the embarrassment melting off of his face, the usual gleam of mirth back in his eyes. 

“Fantastic. Zevran, take down your tent, we leave in an hour,” Elyssa commands, leaving no room for argument. She turns on her heel, walking away from the crowd that surrounds Freya. “And get that girl somewhere else, she isn’t coming with us.” 

“Hey wait…” Freya begins, but is promptly cut off by Zevran placing his hand over her mouth, keeping her from saying something stupider that would only gain her more ire from Elyssa. 

‘Perhaps now is a time for silence, yes?” Zevran says, only a few inches from Freya’s ear. 

“Are you saying I’m annoying?” Freya asks, turning her body so she faces Zevran, however that may have been a mistake. His face is now only inches away from her own, their breathing intertwining as it tickles her face. Butterflies erupt in her stomach, or maybe they’re warning signs, alarms blaring in her mind at how much she desperately wants to get rid of the distance between them. But common sense and the awareness that she’s in nothing but a very thin nightgown keeps her from crossing any lines. 

“I would never!” Zevran exclaims, pushing the stray hairs that frame her face behind her ears. His feather light touch leaves behind fire, burning away at any flesh that it delicately touches. “But you did startle everyone in the camp with your screaming this morning. Maybe it’s best to lay low?” He raises an eyebrow at her, fingers dancing over the tops of her ear as he tucks the hair, his touch lingering longer than necessary. And it tingles, leaving her feeling light as air but stiff as a rock as well, unwilling to move in fear that he might disappear. 

She burns with embarrassment, a different type of heat coming over her body as she recalls her morning wake-up call she graced the camp with. A pit forms at the bottom of her stomach, anxiety coming up her throat like the vomit from the night before. 

“Sorry about screaming this morning!” she exclaims, voice as high as a mouse, nothing more than a squeak that vaguely strings into a sentence. The smirk on Zevran’s face grows, eyes burning like the sun and almost as blinding too. 

“It is of no concern, though a warning next time would be helpful,” he replies, grimacing every so slightly near the end of his sentence. His hand that lingers near her ear falls down to her back, patting her three times as he pushes Freya to stand in front of him. “Now, do whatever it is you radiant, celestial beings do to get ready. I will have our resident Chantry Sister bring you a change of clothes.” 

She stumbles towards the tent and when she’s crouching down to disappear behind the canvas, his fingertips ghosts over her back, leaving shivers in their wake. 

“Though I am more partial to this nightgown, I feel as though you might prefer something studier.” Faltering for a quick second, Freya stumbles into the tent, lying in a heap of heavy limbs, red face, and a racing heart. “Be quick about it, our fearless leader has set our time of departure to one hour.” 

Before Freya can open her mouth, an argument on the tip of her tongue, Zevran moves away from the tent entirely, leaving her with her frantic thoughts. For a moment she’s dumbstruck, staring at a blank tent canvas as her thoughts attempt to organize themselves, sorting into a manner so she can actually understand them. 

“Stupid,” she mutters to herself, crawling over to the bedroll she slept in last night. Her hand begins to mess with the fabric, attempting to smooth it out and fold it, but her grip is shaky, so it ends up more wrinkled than it had been before.

“Knock knock,” a musical and bright voice silences the chaos in Freya's mind. She turns and sees Leliana poking her head through the entrance, crimson red hair falling over her face like a velvet curtain. “I brought you some clothes.” She places a set of trousers and a shirt in the tent, they’re in a color scheme of neutrals: beiges, white, and brown leather. 

“Thanks,” she says, smiling at her, mustering as much carelessness as she could. But it doesn’t work, her thoughts are too heavy and her surroundings are too scary. It’s hard to be at ease when there’s evil creatures desperate to rip her apart only a few feet away, with a woman that uses a large sword, only a few steps away that’s ready to leave her to the wolves.

It’s a wonder she hasn’t broken down in hysterics yet, though that’s probably to come tomorrow.

“When you are finished getting dressed, I can take care of your hair, if you’d like?” she offers, cocking her head slightly to the right, with a smile that’s too sweet to  _ not _ be painful to look at. 

She nods her head, the smile on her face growing just a touch. Leliana nods once, gracing Freya with one more beaming smile before her head disappears from sight. With a sigh, she wills all the heaviness in her bones to leave with the puff of air, straightening her posture so she no longer resembles a limp noodle. 

She crawls over to the pile of clothes that Leliana left for her: leather pants and an off white tunic, with a band that stretches a bit and what appears to be underwear. She holds the band up, folding it inside out and then refolding it again, trying to determine how exactly this fabric is supposed to give her any help in the boob department. She looks at it, then back at her breasts, then back at the fabric. 

_ I suppose it can’t be worse. _

**o0o0o0o**

The second she shimmies outside of the tent, Freya immediately regrets the thought that flitted in her head before peeling away her nightgown. The breast band, as she found out only moments later, is in fact, not the worst part of her outfit. The leather pants are tight and uncomfortable, not at all bending and hugging the shapes of her legs. The tunic that should be loose and flowy fits awkwardly, the fabric too tight around her waist and chest area while the sleeves fit normally, not flaring out like they’re probably supposed to. The only thing that fits properly is her underwear.

Her hair is still a rat's nest, and she refuses to touch it, afraid to somehow make it worse and cause Leliana to rescind her offer to style it. Combine that with the ill fitting clothes and the heavy bags that probably pull down her eyes, it’s a wonder that they haven’t forced her into the forest, accusing her of being a swamp witch. 

The camp is completely torn down, besides the tent behind her. The group all sit around the dead fire, holding bowls filled with a thick looking oatmeal. The dog lays obediently by Elyssa, occasionally ravenously eating any food that falls to the ground. The urge to pet the dog grows stronger in Freya the closer she gets to the group, but the memory of it baring its teeth, ready to attack at a moments notice gives her pause. 

Leliana looks up, pausing mid sentence as she looks at Freya, blue eyes that rival the clearest sky, light up. She stands up, placing her bowl down on the ground. The dog immediately lumbers over to it, starting to eat the remaining contents in it. Leliana skips over the Freya, closing the distance quickly, holding her hands with a grip that feels like air, gently herding Freya over to the rest of the group. 

Zevran stands from his place, setting his bowl down, the dog moving from Leliana’s to his, licking the bowl clean. He throws a grin her way, allowing his eyes to linger on her form a second longer than proper. Alistair clears his throat, throwing a quick glare his way before finishing his own food. Zevran pays him no mind however, stretching his arms like a lazy cat that’s perched in front of a window, causing his shirt to life for a second, displaying a shred of tan skin and toned muscles. He steps over the log and passes by Leliana and Freya, making sure that his shoulder touches Freya’s, his hands grazing her arm, goosebumps dancing in his wake. 

“You look lovely my dear.” His voice is like the wind as he passes by them, leaving behind the intoxicating blend of leather, campfire smoke, and something warmer. 

Freya turns her head, watching him walk away, memorizing the way his hair gently moves in the breeze, the confidence and pride he oozes with each step taken. When she turns her gaze away, Leliana is looking at her with a sly smirk, but doesn’t say anything. Instead she pulls Freya closer to the group, urging her to sit where Leliana once had been. To her left is Alistair and to her right is Elyssa, who doesn’t even look at her. A small smile forms on Alistair's face, nodding in acknowledgement as he continues to eat. Morrigan is still nowhere to be found, but Sten is finally sitting with the group, his height towering over Wynne who sits to his left and Oghren who’s bent over, appearing to be asleep if not for the constant muttering coming from him. 

“I’m so excited, thank you so much for allowing me to do your hair. I love playing with styles on different people!” Leliana exclaims, holding an ivory comb, starting the arderious process of untangling Freya’s hair. It lightly scratches her scalps, lulling her into a state of calm and peace. Somehow Leliana manages to comb through the knots and tangles without tugging or pulling at her hair, keeping Freya in her new zen state. 

“Do you mind if I request a style?” Freya asks, afraid of somehow offending Leliana.

“Of course! Though I may opt to veto it if it doesn't suit you,” Leliana says, her French accent making each word sound like a warm cup of hot chocolate in the middle of a snow storm. 

“Could you take sections from the front and french rope braid them and then bring them together in the back into one large rope braid?” she asks, excitement hidden in her tone as she pictures the hair Daenerys wore when she was taking Meereen, the simple style that was burned in her brain. Yet no matter how often she tried to mimic it, her hands never worked well enough and her hair never quite thick enough to succeed. 

“A french rope braid?” Leliana asks, running her fingers through Freya’s hair. 

“Yeah, where you just twist two section around each other and add hair from the head?” Freya says, twisting her fingers to mimic the motions.

“Oh! You mean an Orlesian twist braid? Of course, that would look so pretty while still being practical, I like it!” Leliana exclaims. With precise movements, Leliana’s comb slices through Freya’s hair, sectioning pieces. Her dexterous hands twist and weave effortlessly, the twist taut against her head, yet not painful. It’s soothing, bringing Freya back to being seven years old, sitting in her mom’s lap as she braids her hair into pigtails. It’s melancholic and comforting, the horrors of last night seeming like a wisp in the wind. A sweet melody echoes in the breeze, Leliana humming louder and louder as she gets lost in the hair style. It’s relaxing, so much so, it escapes Freya’s mind that Leliana called a French braid an Orlesian braid. 

“So Freya, where are you from? It has to be close by here, right?” Alistair asks, setting his spoon down into his bowl, the wood hitting the clay with a dull thud. He sets the bowl down and the dog works his way over to it, long since done with Zevran’s leftovers. 

“Uh, America?” she asks more than says, almost shrugging her shoulders but deciding against it last minute, not wanting to disturb Leliana. 

“Alright, well I’ve never heard of that place.” Alistair says, laughter that’s cloaked by nerves in front of his equally anxious words. He glances at the rest of the group that are sitting around, but no one dares to mutter a word, everyone else pretending to be lost in their daily morning routines.

“What do you mean you’ve never heard of it? It’s big, and obnoxious...not unlike most of its citizens actually,” Freya says, whispering the last part to herself. 

“No, I can’t say I have.” Alistair looks over at Elyssa, who looks at him, neither of their faces readable. 

A small pit of dread forms at the bottom of Freya’s stomach, anxiety growing like it’s a parasite that feeds off of her, stealing away necessary nutrients and leaving behind nothing but shaky hands and a pounding heart. Her eyes dart from Alistair then to Elyssa, over to Wynne, then to her hands. Erratic breaths get louder and more frantic with each inhale she takes. 

“No, he’s lying, you’re lying,” Freya mutters, repeating the mantra over and over, hoping to deny what she already knows to be true. She’s not anywhere close to home. 

“Are you okay?” Leliana stops braiding Freya’s hair, touching her shoulder, the coldness of her palm a stark contrast to the heat building in Freya. But it’s not a good heat, not the bubbly warm feeling that spreads through her when she’s happy, or the unnerving but pleasant warmth that follows every smile and smirk that people like Zevran throw her way. This heat burns hotter than any fire, burning her with such intensity that it doesn't burn, in fact she doesn’t feel anything at all. 

“Why would you lie, that’s such a stupid thing to lie about.” The words get harder to form, throat closing up to the point she can hardly breathe. Small beads of sweat form at the temples of her head, despite the air biting at any exposed skin. 

“Uh, whatever’s happening, it wasn’t my fault,” Alistair says, laughing uneasily as he slowly puts space between him and Freya as she descends deeper and deeper into the recesses of her mind. 

Elyssa narrows her eyes, watching as Freya begins to fidget: her feet bouncing up and down, fingers tapping rapidly against her knees, and her heavy breathing. 

“Freya.” She uses the same commanding tone she speaks to everyone with, snapping a finger near her face, trying to snap her out of whatever stupor she finds herself in. 

“I think she’s having a panic attack,” Leliana says, looking at Elyssa and then back at Freya, running her fingers through her hair, allowing the tips of her nail to lightly scrape against her scalp.

“I’m fine, I’m good,” Freya says, sounding like someone choking on water as they swim in a frenzy, desperate to convince everyone and herself that she isn’t drowning in a sea of confusion and panic. 

“Child, breath, you need to breathe.” Wynne interjects. But her voice isn’t soothing and warm, instead it’s sharp, grating against her ears. Like listening to broken glass scuffing wooden floors or a knife and fork scraping a glass plate. The pounding bursts into her mind, slightly off beat with her heart.

“I am breathing, maybe you should breath!” Freya replies, trying to spit fire but only dripping out a puff of smoke that dissipates into the air.

“Haha, you tell her, spitfire!” the dwarf says, each word slurring together. He lifts his body up just enough to point his finger at Freya, but it's unsteady and shaky, pointing more at the ground than anything. “Now you tell her to fuck off, grandma.” Oghren looks at Wynne who lifts her nose in the air, face conveying disgust. 

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s fine, no need to...panic.” She hears Alistair say, but his voice is a thousand miles away, the endless abyss Freya’s in swallowing the words. She thinks she feels his hand on her shoulder, touching it more gently than when he was pulling on her earlier that morning. 

“You’re not helping Alistair,” Leliana scolds. “Freya, what do you need me to do.” Her accent is like rich chocolate and at any other time it would’ve calmed and relaxed her, but not now. 

“I need you all to stop being crazy!” she exclaims, flailing her arms wildly as she wiggles out of Leliana’s grasp, pushing Alistair’s hand away from her. She stands from the log, legs shaking and wobbly, but she pushes away Leliana’s attempts to help steady her. She steps over the log, stumbling away from the group, longing to get away from all the noise and stifling environment that leaves her suffocating. 

“We’re not the crazy one here.” Elyssa’s voice is calm and crisp, the usual ice following every syllable. Freya whirls around, hair whipping and head getting dizzy. She feels drunk, but not in a pleasant way. Not the type of buzz that makes you feel fearless, like you’re untouchable; the kind that makes you do all the crazy things you’d never dare to think while sober. No, this is the kind of drunk when you've had too much in too short of time, desperate to run away from a sober mind that lingers will depressive thoughts that pull you under. The type that leaves you screaming and crying as all control slowly breaks, forming cracks in the illusion of togetherness. 

“I’m not that one here who’s running around in the middle of fucking nowhere, playing with swords and such, with your prosthetic ears and a silly made up world!” Freya screams, voice crackling at odd places, like a 12 year old boy going through puberty. 

Elyssa narrows her eyes. Almost locking Freya in place if not for the fact that she’s seconds away from a mental breakdown. Leliana is standing, watching Freya with a sad smile and sympathetic eyes, while Alistair is simply watching the outburst with confusion painting his face. Wynne is still sitting as well as Oghren and Sten, only vaguely paying attention to her catatonic state. 

“I mean, what the fuck is Orlesian? Is that like your...fantasy France? Ooo--” Freya says waving her arm in Leliana’s general direction. “--what great world building skills you all have, taking already established countries and just renaming them!” Her words are sarcastic and biting, a cackle similar to a mad woman following her scathing remark.

“What’s France?” Alistair asks Leliana, eyebrows raised and squinting eyes. Leliana gifts him with a sharp glare and a piercing  _ shush _ .

“Shut up!” Freya screeches, pointing a finger at Alistair. “Of course you know what France is! Who doesn’t know what France is?” 

“Uh--” Alistair looks around at everyone, Leliana shakes her head, as Wynne just sighs, resting her forehead in the palm of her hand. “I don’t.” 

She stares at him, face devoid of any tangible emotions. Leliana mutters curse words in French, preparing her ears for the incoming storm. 

Alistair looks back at Freya, a cautious look in his eyes, flinching with each breath she takes, waiting for the inevitable explosion. 

But she doesn’t scream or shout, nor do any banshee wails leave her mouth. Instead she stands there, completely still except for her body that shakes like a leaf. Brown eyes glaze over, staring through Alistair, like she’s in a completely different dimension, somewhere so far away none of them could catch her. A dam is in her mind, keeping away all the raging emotions and swirling thoughts that ferociously beat down on her. But with each passing second and all the eyes that lock on her, it slowly cracks, as the wood splinters and cracks in the middle. 

And then it’s completely broken. 

Her knees give out as she falls to the ground, tears falling out of her eyes like a fearsome waterfall, threatening to pull everything into its rapid current and throw it off the edge. It’s loud and abrasive, her sharp intakes of breath sounding more like dry heaving than sobbing. She hits the ground, hands digging into the hard soil. It’s painful as dirt shoves in her nails, small droplets of crimson blood mingling with dark brown. 

“Is she okay?” Alistair asks, his voice hardly above a whisper, but the wind carries it to Freya, along with the sound of a fist hitting flesh and Alistair’s quiet ‘ _ Ow’. _

“I don’t care, we don’t have time for the wailing of a mad woman,” Elyssa snaps, glowering at Alistair then turns her ire to somewhere in the corner of camp. “Bodahn, be prepared to leave in five minutes, if you aren’t ready, we’re leaving you behind. That goes for everyone else!” She stomps off, her dog following close behind. She disappears into the forest, a trail of ice following in suit. 

“I’m not crazy, you are!” Freya whines in between sobs, hiccuping at the end. Tears continue to stream down her face, melting away the icy morning dew that coats the ground. Snot drips out of her nose and she sniffles, not wanting to look like a complete train wreck, but that’s difficult enough with a splotchy red face and puffy eyes that glisten with tears. 

“What is this! I leave for five minutes only to come back to see my charge sobbing on the ground while you all just stare? Alistair I expected this from, but Leliana, I had hoped you had more tact than this!” Zevran exclaims, an angel appearing from heaven, similar to when he saved her from the monster, only this time the monster is in Freya’s head. 

“Don’t look at me, this isn’t my fault! I just asked her about her home.” 

“In hindsight probably not the best idea.” Leliana speaks up. 

Leather boots appear in Freya’s vision, the same ones she saw last night before she vomited all of her stomach’s contents. She follows them up with her eyes, trailing up his leather clad legs, armored chest, and finally landing on his face. He bends down, kneeling as he watches her. Concern floods his eyes, lips in a small sad smile.

“What happened,  _ mia cara _ ?” his voice is soothing, a sweet tune amidst an off tune ballad, each key clashing together until his tune rings clearly over it all. 

“I want to go home.” she wails, like a child crying to their mother. “But they don’t know where America or France is and you all have big scary weapons and I don’t think Wynne’s magic was a light show. Which is crazy because magic shouldn’t be real.” 

“We can figure out how to get you home, my dear.” Zevran says, tentatively placing a hand over hers, wrapping around her fingers and guiding them out of the dirt. “There’s no need to try, yes.”

“No you can’t, because I don’t think you have planes and I’m not good with directions, which is bad because Elyssa hates me and wants to leave me here and I don’t want to die, but I will if you all leave me behind!” 

“I won’t let her leave you, I promise.” he says, strong conviction lacing every word, so strong she can’t help but believe in it. 

“Okay,” she says, but continues to cry, despite the anxiety in her head that’s beginning to soothe, heart steadying to a normal pace. 

“Is there something else bothering you?” he asks, a hint of amusement curling at his question. 

“No.” she moans, still heaving despite the tears that are drying. 

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because Leliana never finished my hair and I want to look like Daenerys Targaryen so I can be her and fly on a dragon.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Ravens and Vines and Elf Ears, Oh My!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, I'm not dead (☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞   
> Also, Oghren and Freya are bros now, and no, I do no accept criticism.

“You appear to be in a much better mood, my dear,” Zevran says, glancing at Freya from the corner of his eye. He walks with an air of nonchalance; his movements are loose with an easy expression on his face. Whilst his demeanor is relaxed, his carmel eyes dart around the surroundings, keenly watching for any threats, mainly focusing on the blind spots Freya isn’t even aware are there. 

The two rope braids loosely hang from Freya’s scalp, gently smacking against her head with each step taken. The threads of dawn light slip past the trees above them, allowing small slivers of golden rays to hit Freya’s face, the amber flecks in her brown eyes more prominent than before. There’s a slight skip in each of her steps, a lightness that’s akin to a fairy frolicking through a field. Every few steps she spins around with her arms loosely outstretched. 

She moves circles around Zevran, but always returns to his right side, not wanting to be directly beside the previously darkened forest. Despite the light illuminating the floor and the harmless squirrels that run through the trees, it terrifies her. The thought that the same twisted vile creature that nearly killed her the other night isn’t the only one of it’s kind hidden beneath fallen leaves and broken branches keeping her wary of the trees. 

“I guess, it must be the sun!” Freya says, kicking a foot forward and doing a small spin, however, her foot gets caught on a stray branch. She stumbles mid-air, nearly falling on her face, but Zevran grabs onto her arm in time, keeping her on her feet and off the dirt. He holds onto her until her feet steady, the easy grin on his face a matching set with the soft giggle that leaves Freya’s mouth. 

She feels drunk, and delirious, and slightly unstable. It’s the only way to justify her extreme mood changes. One moment her entire world is crashing down, and now she’s skipping through the forest with these “adventurers” like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Maybe she’s the problem and not them. Perhaps this is all one grand delusion that she created in her mind. 

But she can’t think of that, not now, not when her sanity already hangs on such a thin string. So instead of dealing with the possibility that she’s lost her mind, she pushes it aside, using all of her energy to focus on the way her hair bounces with each step and savoring the gentle caress of the sun on her skin. The best thing she can do now is go along with whatever happens, to be just like the soft breeze that causes her hair to lightly dance in the wind.

“Is that a thing?” Alistair asks, quirking his brow and cocking his head like a confused puppy. He walks on the other side of Freya, a few feet of empty air separating them. 

She looks at Alistair, patiently waiting for him to continue. She still isn’t fully sure where the two of them stand. Whilst he’s been far less hostile than Elyssa, showing her more warmth than Sten - not that it’s a very difficult task -, he’s still clearly...unnerved around her. Like he’s trying to figure her out and he can’t, and that seems to set him on edge. Which in turn sets Freya on edge. It feels like the only person she truly feels comfortable around is Zevran. He’s too charming and charismatic to not melt with every phrase or word of endearment that falls from his mouth. 

“Like, can the sun really help with your--” Alistair pauses mid sentence and starts wildly gesturing with his hands, as if they would somehow finish the sentence for him. She stops in her place, raising a brow at Alistair. 

He glances at Leliana, silently pleading for help, but she gives him a stern glare, sky blue eyes turning to ice for a brief second. Alistair immediately looks away, gulping slightly, before resting his eyes on Freya once more. 

“--with your...hair! It looks fantastic! Leliana really can work magic can’t she?” Alistair exclaims, speaking with a faster pace than previously. Freya’s brows furrow, head cocking slightly to the side. Behind her, Zevran snorts, knowing that Alistair clearly wasn’t originally talking about hair. 

“Oh, well thank you! But the sun has nothing to do with my hair, silly!” Freya exclaims, laughing slightly towards the end. She resumes skipping and veers to the right, closing the distance separating her and Alistair. She gets beside him, and spins around, circling to his left. “Did you not hear when Zevran commented on my mood, that’s what I was talking about.”

“Right, silly me,” Alistair says, his lips stretching into a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, causing it to look awkward and strained. Freya hates when people are awkward around her, it brings back a wave of flashbacks from when people would avoid her like the plague, deeming her too odd to be near. 

“It’s okay, you don’t have to walk on eggshells with me. I’m fine, I was just caught off guard this morning.” She smiles brightly at him, hoping to convince him of what she’s been trying to tell herself since her early morning breakdown. He nods, but his eyes dart away from hers, having a silent conversation with everyone in the group except for her. 

“I’m serious Alistair, I’m fine… well not fine, but you know...I’m surviving,” she says, still smiling, but it seems a tad dimmer this time, her eyes squinting to try and do as Tyra Banks always said, to smile with her eyes. Smiles always look more genuine and convincing that way. 

“Right, of course, everything is just fine, if you don’t count The Blight, The Grey Wardens of Fereldan being dead, and the massive price on our heads.” Alistair says, sarcasm practically oozing from each word. But Freya seems unbothered. 

She simply nods her head once, and smacks him on the back, his armor ringing faintly from the impact of her palm. Her hand turns red from the hit, pain faintly pulsing in her hand. 

“That’s the spirit Alistair!” She smiles, brighter this time, hoping to mimic the sun above her. 

“I see nothing wrong with Freya’s mood. In fact, her happiness is infectious, is it not?” Leliana says, appearing on Freya’s right side. She loops her arm around her’s, pulling her closer towards the center of the makeshift road they’re travelling on. Leliana is just as confusing as Alistair, whilst on the outside she appears warm and welcoming, accepting Freya with open arms. There’s something off about her, it’s the sharpness in her normally light eyes or the way she carries herself when she thinks no one can see. She’s beyond this ditzy act she puts on, but Freya can’t bring herself to care enough to delve deeper than the surface. Leliana is a friend, even if just for now, and Freya’s friend’s list is too short to be picky. 

Not when she’s terrified of being left for dead whenever Elyssa decides she’s too much work to keep around. 

“Yeah, loosen up,” Oghren shouts from ahead, his words slurring together. He continues stumbling forward, nearly tripping over air but quickly catching himself. He throws his head back, chugging a putrid smelling liquid from his flask. Oghren is easy to read: he’s a drunk who likes to hit things, what more could she need to know. 

“Well I for one find it unbearable. I can’t decide what is more insufferable: this ditzy act or when you're in hysterics.” Morrigan’s cool voice slices through the light-hearted atmosphere like a freshly sharpened blade. Unlike Alistair or Leliana, Freya knows exactly where she stands in Morrigan’s mind, and sometimes she wishes she didn’t. 

“I prefer this, although I might be biased. I tend to not enjoy having mental breakdowns,” Freya responds, turning around to look at Morrigan, the smile still on her face. Morrigan simply rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Ignore her, Morrigan is a spooky swamp witch, which means she feeds off of sadness: sadness and children.” Alistair says, glancing at Morrigan with a conspiratorial glint in his brown eyes. Morrigan’s scowl deepens, if at all possible, her razor sharp eyes focusing on Alistair

“Wait really? Well, I don’t taste very good, trust me! You wouldn’t want to waste your time and energy on eating me, it wouldn’t be worth it,” Freya says, waving her hands frantically in Morrigan's general direction. This elicits an eye roll from her, a hand resting on the left side of her hip. 

“Oh well would you look at that, Alistair might have finally found someone that is possibly dumber than he is,” Morrigan snidely says. 

“I’ll have you know,  _ Morrigan _ \--” Freya begins, resting her hands on her hips. “--my intelligence is very high. So high, in fact. that it was too high and is now back at zero. Like in Skyrim, when you reach 100 in a skill and go Legendary, so it brings the skill back down to zero, just like that”

Morrigan simply raises her brows at Freya, a scathing remark on the tip of her sharp tongue. But instead she shakes her head, rolling her shoulders back to stand taller. 

“Yeah!” Alistair exclaims, pointing a finger at Morrigan. Then a moment later, lowers his hand, turning towards Freya with a look of confusion on his face. “Wait, what’s Skyrim?”

“Oh well, it’s this game--” Freya begins, but is cut off before she can dive into an explanation of the game. 

“I’ve had enough. I will be watching from above,” Morrigan says. Within a matter of seconds Morrigan is gone and in her place stands a raven. It caws once, and then immediately flaps it’s midnight black wings, flying high into the sky until it disappears from sight. 

“Ah!” Freya shouts, jumping back in shock, eyes wide and mouth agape. She stumbles over her own feet, landing with a muffled  _ thump _ on the rocky forest floor, staring at where Morrigan used to be.

“Did--did she just--” she’s unable to finish her sentence however, the words caught in her throat, keeping anything but a small screech from escaping. 

“Turn in a bird? Yeah she does that,” Alistair says, leaning down to help Freya up, but Zevran beats him to it. With an otherworldly grace, Zevran glides to Freya’s side, grabbing her hand in his own and pulling her up before Alistair can offer his aid. Alistair scowls at Zevran, but doesn’t say anything. Instead he straightens his posture and continues walking, yet maintains a close eye on Freya. 

“You’ll get used to it,  _ mia carina _ ,” he says, his words like honey. She can’t imagine anything he says being anything less than sugar sweet and too smooth for his own good. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Freya mutters, eyeing the sky, as if she expects bird Morrigan to swoop down and peck out her eyes. 

“What’s the hold up?” Elyssa exclaims from the front of the group. She’s turned around, facing them with a scowl on her fair features and crossed arms. Her eyes look at each of them, until finally settling on Freya, narrowing slightly. Freya shivers, her pride the only thing stopping her from cowering into Zevran. Sten stands near Elyssa, a similar expression on his face. While Alistair’s posture is like a statue, Sten literally looks like a statue; a combination of his grey skin and perfectly straight posture.

“Just Morrigan being Morrigan,” Alistair calls out, his entire demeanor changing, all traces of jokes and mirth replaced with a stone cold seriousness. 

“She scared Freya, nothing more,” Leliana interjects, finishing Alistair's thoughts. Her smile still rests on her face, but it’s more strained than it had been seconds ago. 

“Don’t let it happen again, we don’t have a disposable amount of time,” Elyssa says, cold stare unwavering. For a moment it’s completely silent, no one uttering a word. And then Freya opens her mouth.

“Ma’am yes ma’am!”she exclaims, but her voice is shakier than she’d prefer. Elyssa simply raises a brow before turning to face the front, continuing to march forward, her dog bounding after her. Sten grunts, turning and following after, his heavy footsteps forming faint imprints into the dirt. She watches as their figures grow more and more distant before whirling around to face Zevran. 

“Did you see that, I didn’t stutter, not once!” Freya whispers excitedly, her bright eyes as wide as an owl, and Zevran can’t help it when he mimics her expression, her enthusiasm contagious.

“What an accomplishment! My little dove is slowly turning into a ferocious lioness! I say we celebrate tonight at camp with a glass of...well, I’m not sure if we have any wine.” Zevran says, getting lost in thought momentarily. Freya watches in fascination as his ears twitch the deeper in thought gets.

It’s odd. Human ears don’t move like that, not any that she’s seen at least. It seems like such a simple difference, but the way they’re elongated and pointed at the tip makes them look so alien to her. Probably because she’s never seen elf ears like this before. Most prosthetics look obnoxiously fake, even the best of them looking unrealistic if you stare for a moment too long. But Zevran’s ears look completely natural, as if they were always like that. Suddenly the impulse to touch them fills her head, the curiosity in her dying to try and feel for any seam where his ears end and the prosthetics begin, but she manages to control that urge. Yet she can’t help but wonder how they would feel under her fingers.

She’s broken from her temporary stupor, however, when Zevran flippantly waves his hands in the air, as if it would banish whatever thoughts were in his mind. 

“Nevermind that-- I’ll figure something out. Shall we continue, whilst I cherish any alone time with a beauty such as yourself, I would rather not be left behind in these woods,” Zevran says, a roguish grin on his face. He holds out his hand and Freya places her smaller and much colder one in his. 

“Let us be off.” 

**_o0o0o_ **

“So Freya.” 

“So Leliana,” Freya responds, glancing at Leliana, who has been walking beside her for the past hour. 

“Do you know how to play any instruments?” Leliana asks, glancing over at Freya for a second before returning her gaze to look ahead, gracefully avoiding any particularly prominent roots or rocks. 

“Sure, tons! I’m great at the guit- er lute,” Freya says, quickly correcting herself. Her eyes are on Leliana rather than the path ahead of her, causing her to nearly collide with a root that sticks up from the ground, but Zevran just pulls her out of the way. In return, Freya squeezes his hand, a silent  _ ‘Thank you’ _ for his aid, and he squeezes her hand back, a silence  _ ‘Your welcome.’ _

“Really?” Leliana asks, eyes widening like a kid in a candy shop with an unlimited budget. Before Freya can respond, Leliana removes a lute that is slung over her back. 

“Yup!” Freya says, her tone confident, but she looks at the lute out of the corner of her eyes, anxiety creeping inside her. Internally, she’s banging her head against the nearest tree, screaming and yelling at herself. She’s never played a guitar, much less a lute. 

“Would you mind playing a song, then? Maybe something from your home!” Leliana exclaims, garnering the attention of Alistair, whose only three steps ahead of them. From somewhere ahead Oghren snorts at the mention of her home, but doesn’t say anything. Elyssa and Sten are too far ahead to hear them even if either wanted to interject, a small blessing for Freya. She’s already had her daily dose of Elyssa, any more interactions and she might cry - loudly. 

Freya opens her mouth to decline, not eager to make an even bigger fool of herself, but the look on Leliana’s face makes her hesitate. She looks so excited at the prospect of travelling with another musician. There’s a gleam in her blue eyes that wasn’t there before, her lips curling into a hopeful smile.

_ ‘No, say no. You have to say no.’ _

“Uhh--” Freya stutters.

_ ‘Don’t do it. Just say no, how hard could it be? One word, two letters. N-O. No.’ _

“Sure!” Freya exclaims, internally cringing. 

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, Freya! Here, I tune it every morning, but if you need a different key, please feel free to re-tune it!” Leliana gushes, practically throwing her lute at Freya in her eagerness to hand it over. 

“No, no, this should be...fine,” Freya says, weakly smiling at her. She fumbles with the instrument, unsure of how to hold it. It’s bulky and weird, the shape entirely foreign to her. She holds the skinnier side with her left and holds the other end with her right. She presses the smooth wood against her stomach, but it keeps slipping, not gripping to the fabric of her tunic. 

“You need to use the strap, silly,” Leliana says, a bell-like laugh following her words. She moves forward, helping Freya put the strap over her head so it rests around her neck, the lute loosely hanging near her abdomen.

“Right, I knew that, I was just...testing you,” Freya mutters, heat rushing to her cheeks causing her face to turn bright red. This elicits another tinkling laugh from Leliana and a low chuckle from Zevran. 

“Of course you were,” Alistair says, moving to stand closer to the three of them. “Now come on, show us what you’ve got,” Alistair prods, crossing his arms over his armored chest, a smirk pulling at his lips. 

“Oh what are the four of you doing? We have to keep moving if we want to reach Redcliffe in time,” Wynne approaches them, a stern look in her blue eyes, her furrowed brows creating even more lines and creases on her forward. 

“Yeah, just what do you all think you're doing, huh?” Oghren stumbles behind Wynne, nearly tripping over himself a dozen times. A putrid smell follows him, like food that’s been rotting for so long it’s past the point of decomposition, and it’s being held in an old smelly sock. 

_ ‘Gross.’  _

“Freya is gonna play something for us!” Leliana exclaims. Wynne raises a brow, an accusatory look on her face, lips pressing into a thin line. 

“Really?” she questions.

“Oh yes, and I’m sure it’ll be absolutely beautiful!” Leliana says, a beaming smile on her face. 

“I wouldn’t go that far…” Freya mutters, nervously fidgeting in her spot, tightly holding the thinner part of the guitar with her left hand, fingers digging into the strings. 

“Oh this outta be good, he he he,” Oghren says, chuckling to himself as he stops beside Wynne. She wrinkles her nose at the foul smell following him, side stepping to put some distance between them. 

“Alright, well, here I go. Be prepared to be wowed,” Freya says, glancing at each of them. Leliana gives her an encouraging nod, Alistairs gives her a thumbs up with a tight smile on his face, whilst Wynne continues to look unamused and Oghren looks like he’s completely zoned out already.

She strums once, the strings painfully scraping against the bed of her fingernails. The noise is sharp, but not as bad as she imagined it would be, though much softer than she thought it would be. 

She strums a second time, holding down the strings with more pressure and strumming downwards with more force. Leliana’s face immediately turns sour, but maintains a smile full of strains on her face, not wanting to potentially offend Freya. Alistair slowly lowers his hands, his smile morphing into a grimace. Wynne keeps the scowl on her face, whilst Oghren drunkenly throws his hands into the air.

“Yeah!” he slurs, his words instantly being drowned by Freya strumming the guitar a third time, this time with an upwards stroke, feeling more confident this time around. 

“I love you bitch,” she sings, poorly, and very much off key. She strums the guitar. “I ain’t ever gonna stop loving you--” she strums one last time “--bitch,” she finishes, instantly closing her mouth and pressing her palm against the guitar strings to muffle any noise.

It’s silent, not even the bird chirping or the wind whistling. 

“That was--” Leliana begins, slowly, unsure of what words to say.

“The best thing I’ve heard in a long time!” Oghren cuts her off. “Hey Warden, looks like we picked up another bard he he he,” he slurs, turning towards the direction of Elyssa, staring at her backside as she continues walking. He stumbles after her, hiccuping as few times. “But this one is better!”

Freya watches Oghren until she can no longer hear his drunken laughter, returning her attention to the remaining three people, four if you count Zevran who’s behind her.

“Tada!” Freya exclaims, a weak smile on her face, holding her arms up while doing jazz hands.

“Perhaps it might be best if you don’t play for us,yes,  _ mia carina _ ?” Zevran says from behind Freya, grasping the strap in his hands and gently pulling it over Freya’s head. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I agree with Zevran on this one,” Alistair mumbles, mouth agape and eyes slightly frightened. 

“It was lovely, really, but...maybe not again,” Leliana says. “--like, ever again.” She slowly steps towards Freya, grabbing the lute and slinging it around her shoulder. She gives Freya one more strained smile before turning and hurrying after Oghren and Elyssa.

Freya looks at Alistair, but he keeps his eyes to the sky. 

“Oh would you look at the time, I really should go, I have some...things to discuss with Elyssa,” he stutters out. “Grey Warden things, you wouldn’t understand.” And just like Leliana and Oghren, he’s gone in a flash. 

“Oh child,” Wynne mutters under her breath, releasing a long sigh, before turning around and walking away, her pace much slower than Alistair’s or Leliana’s.

“And then there were two.” Freya says, turning to face Zevran. He opened his mouth, musical laughter escaping it. The kind that causes you to throw back your head with your eyes shut. 

“It would seem we find ourselves alone together quite often, usually after you say or do something very odd.” Zevran says, mirth lining his words. 

“Yes well, it’s what I’m the best at.” Freya replies, a beaming smile on her red face.

“It would seem so, now come, lets go, we still have a long day of travel ahead of us,” Zevran says, but despite his words, doesn’t move any closer to the quickly disappearing group. Instead he’s locked in place, waiting for Freya to respond. 

“Do we have to?” Freya whines, the tip of her right foot lightly digging into the dirt.

“Unless you want to be left alone in these woods, then yes, yes we do my dear,” he says, a small smile on his face. Freya immediately perks up, standing up straight with a large smile on her face.

“You know suddenly walking doesn’t seem so bad,” she says

“I could always carry you?” Zevran offers, raising his eyebrows at her with mischief gleaming in his amber eyes. 

“Wait really!?” Freya says, eyes lighting up like a child on Christmas morning looking at all of their presents. 

“It would be my honor,” he says. Freya steps closer to him, placing a hand on both of his shoulders, forcing his body to turn so his back is facing her. With her hands still on his shoulders, she jumps, lifting her body up enough so she can wrap her legs around his torso, clinging to him like a monkey, laughing the whole time.

“You know, I’ve thought about your legs wrapped around my body often, though I admit, it’s usually for a different reason.” Zevran says, turning his head to look at Freya. His warm breath hits the side of her neck, causing a shiver to run up her spin. She gulps, mind turning white at the thinly veiled innuendo, her face burning bright red again.

“Shhh,” is all she can manage, as she lightly smacks his arm, hoping he would stop. She might explode if he keeps going, and now is not the place or time for any explosions of any kind. She wraps her arms securely around his neck, burying her face in his neck, hoping to hide her flushed face. His throat vibrates slightly as she chuckles lowly, adjusting her legs so they're resting in a comfortable position. 

"As My Lady commands."


End file.
